Conscience, entire by Hector Malot

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he continued his experiments, or wrote an article in his office for theReview.

But it was not without a struggle that she permitted herself to judge himin this way. One does not judge those whom one loves, and she loved him.Was it not failing in respect to her love that she did not admire him inevery way? When these ideas oppressed her she left her easel and went tohim. Close to him they disappeared. At first, in order not to disturbhim, she entered on tiptoe, walking softly and leaning over his shoulder,embraced him before he saw or heard her; but he betrayed such horror,such fear, that she gave up this way of greeting him.

She continued to go to his room, but in a different way. Instead ofsurprising him she announced her presence by rattling the handle of thedoor, and walking noisily, and instead of receiving her with uneasymanner he welcomed her joyfully.

"You have finished painting?"

"I have come to see you for a little while."

"Very well, stay with me, do not go away immediately; I am never sohappy, I never work so well, as when I have you near me."

She felt that this was true. When she was with him, whether she spoke ornot, her presence made him happy.

And still she must appear not to look at him too attentively, as if withthe manifest intention of studying him; for she did this during the firstdays of their marriage, and angered him so much that he exclaimed:

"Why do you examine me thus? What do you look for in me?"

She learned to watch herself carefully, and when with him to preserve adiscreet attitude that should not offend him. No curious looks, and noquestions. But this was not always easy, so she asked leave to assisthim in his work, and sometimes drew in larger size the designs that hemade for his microscopical studies. In this way the time passed rapidly.If he were but willing to pass the evening hours in this sweet intimacy,without a word about going out, how happy she would be! But he neverforgot the hour.

"Allons," he said, interrupting himself, "we must go."

She had never dared to ask the true reason for this "must."

CHAPTER XLI

A TROUBLED SOUL

If she dared not frankly ask him this question: Why must we go out? anymore than the others: Why is it proper that I should go to mass to beseen? Why should I wear gowns that ruin us? Why do you acceptdecorations that are valueless in your eyes? Why do you seek the societyof men who have no merit but what they derive from their officialposition or from their fortune? Why do we take upon ourselves socialduties that weary both of us, instead of remaining together in a tenderand intelligent intimacy that is sweet to us both? she could not askherself.

They all appertained to this order of ideas, that she, without doubt,found explained them: disposition of character; the exactions of anambition in haste to realize its desires; susceptibility or overshadowingpride; but there were others founded on observation or memory, having noconnection with those, or so it seemed to her.

She began to know her husband the day following their marriage, havingbelieved that he was always such as he revealed himself to her; but thiswas not the case, and the man she had loved was so unlike the man whosewife she had become, that it might almost be thought there were two.

To tell the truth, it was not marriage that made the change in his temperthat distressed her; but it was not less characteristic by that, that itdated back to a period anterior to this marriage.

She remembered the commencement with a clearness that left no place fordoubt or hesitation; it was at the time when pursued by creditors heentered into relations with Caffie. For the first time he, always sostrong that she believed him above weakness, had had a moment ofdiscouragement on announcing that he would probably be obliged to leaveParis; but this depression had neither the anger nor weakness that he hadsince shown. It was the natural sadness of a man who saw his futuredestroyed, nothing more. The only surprise that she then felt was causedby the idea of strangling Caffie and taking enough money from his safe toclear himself from debt, and also because he said--as a consequence ofthis act--speaking of the remorse of an intelligent man, that hisconscience would not reproach him, since for him conscience did notexist. But this was evidently a simple philosophical theory, not a traitof character; a jest or an argument for the sake of discussion.

Relieved from his creditors with the money won at Monaco, he returned tohis usual calm, working harder than ever, passing his 'concours', andwhen it seemed excusable that he might be nervous, violent, unjust, heremained the man that he had been ever since she knew him. Then, all atonce, a short time before Florlentin went to the assizes, occurred thesestrange explosions of temper, spasms of anger, and restlessness that shecould not explain, manifesting themselves exactly at the time when, byMadame Dammauville's intervention, she hoped Florentin would be saved.She had not forgotten the furious anger, that was inexplicable andunjustifiable, with which he refused her request to see MadameDammauville. He had thrust her away, wishing to break with her, anduntil she was a witness of this scene she never imagined that any onecould put such violence into exasperation. Then to this scene succeededanother, totally opposed, which had not less impressed her, when, attheir little dinner by the fire, he showed such profound desolation ontelling her to keep the memory of this evening when she should judge him,and announcing to her, in a prophetic sort of way, that the hour wouldcome when she would know him whom she loved.

And now this hour, the thought of which she had thrown far from her, hadsounded; she sought to combine the elements of this judgment which thenappeared criminal to her, and now forced itself upon her, whatever shemight do to repel it.

How many times this memory returned to her! It could almost be said thatit had never left her, sweet and sad at the same time, less sweet andmore sad, according as new subjects for uneasiness were added to theothers, in deepening the mysterious and troublous impression that it leftwith her.

To judge him! Why did he wish that she should judge him? And on what?

And yet with him it was not an insignificant word, but the evidence of aparticular state of conscience, which many times since asserted itself.Was it not, in effect, to this order of ideas that the cry belonged thatescaped him in the night when, waking suddenly, he asked with emotion,with fright: "What have I said?" And also to the same appertained theanger that carried him away when, 'a propos' of their religious marriage,she spoke of confession: "Why do you think that I should be afraid to goto confession?"

How could he imagine that she could admit the idea of fear in connectionwith him? The idea never occurred to her mind until this moment; and ifnow the memory of her astonishment came to her, it was because of otherlittle things added to those of the past that evoked it.

How numerous and significant they were, these things: his constantuneasiness on seeing himself watched by her; his invitation when hethought she was going to question him; his access of passion when,through heedlessness or forgetfulness, or simply by chance, she asked hima question on certain subjects, and immediately the tenderness thatfollowed, so sudden that they appeared rather planned in view of adetermined end than natural or spontaneous.

It was a long time before she admitted the calculation under the sweetwords that made her so happy; but in the end it was well that she shouldopen her eyes to the evidence, and see that they were with him theconsequences of the same and constant preoccupation, that of notcommitting himself.

It was only one step from this to ask him what he did not wish to yieldup.

Yet, as short as it was, she resisted for a long time the curiosity thatpossessed her. It was her duty as a loving and devoted wife not to seekbeyond what he showed her, and this duty was in perfect accord with thedispositions of her love; but the power of things seen carried her beyondwill and reason. She could not apply her mind to search for that whichagonized her, and she could not close her eyes and ears to what she sawand heard.

And what struck them were the same observations, turning always in thesame circle, applied to the same subjects and persons:

As for the two former, she might have prevented the pronunciation of themwhen she saw the effect they infallibly produced on him.

But she could not prevent the utterance of Florentin's name, even had shewished it. How could she tell her mother never to speak the name of himwho was constantly in their thoughts?

In spite of Saniel's efforts and solicitations, supported by Nougarede's,Florentin had embarked for New Caledonia, whence he wrote as often as hecould. His letters related all his sufferings in the terrible galleys,where he was confined during the voyage, and since his arrival they werea series of long complaints, continued from one to the other, like astory without end, turning always on the same subject, his physicalsufferings, his humiliation, his discouragement, and his disgust in themidst of the unfortunates whose companion he was.

The arrival of these letters filled the mother and sister with anguishthat lasted for several days; and this anguish, that neither of themcould dissimulate, angered Saniel.

"What would you do if he were dead?" he asked Phillis.

"Would it not be better for him?"

"But he will return."

"In what condition?"

"Are we the masters of fate?"

"We weep, we do not complain."

But he complained of the weeping faces that surrounded him, the tearsthey concealed from him, the sighs they stifled. Ordinarily he wastender and affectionate to his mother-in-law, with attention anddeference which in some ways seemed affected, as if he were so by willrather than by natural sentiment; but at these times he forgot thistenderness, and treated her with hardness so unjust, that more than onceMadame Cormier spoke of it to her daughter.

"How can your husband, who is so good to me, be so merciless regardingFlorentin? One would say that our sadness produces on him the effect ofa reproach that we would address to him."

One day when things had gone farther than usual, she had the courage tospeak to him plainly: "Forgive me for burdening you with the weariness ofour disgrace," she said to him. "When I complain of everything, of menand things, you should remember that you are the exception, you who havedone everything to save him."

But these few words which she believed would calm the irritation of herson-in-law, had on the contrary exasperated him; he left her, furious.

"I do not understand your husband at all," she said to her daughter."Will you not explain to me what the matter is with him?"

How could she give her mother the explanation that she could not giveherself? Having reached an unfathomable abyss, she dared not even leanover to look into its depths; and instead of going on in the path whereshe was pledged in spite of herself, she made every effort to return, orat least to stop.

What good would it do to find out why he was so peculiar, and what it wasthat he took so much pains to conceal? This could only be idle curiosityon her part, for which she would be punished sooner or later.

Turning these thoughts over continually in her mind she lost her gayety,her power to resist blows of fate, such as the small trials of life,which formerly made her courageous; her vigorous elasticity sunk underthe heavy weight with which it was charged, and her smiling eyes now moreoften expressed anxiety than happiness and confidence.

In spite of her watchfulness over herself she was not able to hide thechange from Saniel, for it manifested itself in everything--in her faceformerly so open, but which now bore the imprint of a secret sadness; inher concentrated manner, in her silence and abstraction.

What was the matter with her? He questioned her, and she replied withthe prudence that she used in all her conversation with him. He examinedher medically, but found nothing to indicate a sickly condition whichwould justify the change in her.

If she did not wish to answer his questions, and he had the proof thatshe did not wish to; if, on the other hand, she was not ill, and he wasconvinced that she was not--there must be something serious the matter tomake the woman whom but lately he read so easily become an enigma thatmade him uneasy.

And this thing--if it were that whose crushing weight he himself carriedon his bent shoulders? She divined, she understood, if not all, at leasta part of the truth.

What an extraordinary situation was hers, and one which might trulydestroy her reason.

Nothing to fear from others, everything from himself. Justice, law, theworld--on all sides he was let alone; nothing was asked of him; thatwhich was owed was paid; but he by a sickly aberration was going to awakethe dead who slept in their tomb, from which no one thought of takingthem, and to make spectres of them which he alone saw and heard.

And he believed himself strong. Fool that he was, and still more foolishto have taken such a charge when by the exercise of his will he did notplace himself in a condition to carry it! To will! But he had notlearned how to will.

CHAPTER XLII

THE POWER OF HYPNOTISM

The relative calm that Saniel had felt since his marriage he owed toPhillis; to the strength, the confidence, the peace that he drew fromher. Phillis without strength, without confidence, without interiorpeace, such as she was now, could not give him what she no longer hadherself, and he returned to the distracted condition that preceded hismarriage, and felt the same anguish, the same agitation, the samemadness. The beautiful relations, worldly consideration, success,decorations, honors, were good for others; but for his happiness herequired the tranquillity and serenity of his wife, and her good moralhealth which passed into him when she slept on his shoulder. In thatcase there were no sudden awakenings, no sleeplessness; at the sound ofher gentle respiration he was reassured, and the spectres remained intheir tomb.

But now that this respiration was agitated, and he no longer felt in herthis tranquillity and serenity, he was no longer calm; she was weak anduneasy, and she communicated her fever to him, not her sleep.

"You do not sleep. Why do you not sleep?"

"And you?"

He must know.

He persisted in his questions, but she was always on her guard, so thathe was unable to draw anything from her, checked as he was by the fear ofbetraying himself, which seemed easy at the point he believed she hadreached. An awkward word, too much persistence, would let a flood oflight into her mind.

He also affected to speak as a physician when questioning her, and tolook for medical explanations of her condition.

"If you do not sleep it is because you suffer. What is this suffering?From what does it proceed?"

Having no reasons to give to justify it, since she did not even dare tospeak of her brother, she denied it obstinately.

"But nothing is the matter with me, I assure you," she repeated. "Whatdo you think is the matter?"

"That is what I ask you."

"Then I ask you: What do you think I conceal from you?"

He could not say that he suspected her of concealing anything from him.

"You do not watch yourself properly."

"I can do nothing."

"I will force you to watch yourself and to speak."

"How?"

"By putting you to sleep."

The threat was so terrible that she was beside herself.

"Do not do that!" she cried.

They looked at each other for a few moments in silence, both equallyfrightened, she at the threat, he at what he would learn from her. Butto show this fright was on his side to let loose another proof even moregrave.

"Why should I not seek to discover in every way the cause of thisuneasiness which escapes my examination as well as yours? For thatsomnambulism offers us an excellent way."

"But since I am not ill, what more could I tell you when I am asleep thanwhen I am awake?"

"We shall see."

"It is an experiment that I ask you not to attempt. Would you try apoison on me?"

"Somnambulism is not a poison."

"Who knows?"

"Those who have made use of it."

"But you have not."

"Still I know enough to know that you will run no danger in my hands."

She believed that he opened a door of escape to her.

"Never mind, I am too much afraid. If you ever want to make me talk in astate of forced somnambulism, ask one of your 'confreres' in whom youhave confidence to put me to sleep."

Before a 'confrere' she was certain he would not ask her dangerousquestions.

He understood that she wished to escape him.

"Afraid of what?" he asked. "That I shall ask you questions about thepast, concerning your life before we knew each other, and demand aconfession that would wound my love?"

"O Victor!" she cried, distracted. "What more cruel wound could yougive me than these words? My confession! It comprises three words: Ilove you; I have never loved any one but you; I shall never love any onebut you. I have no past; my life began with my love."

He could not press it without showing the importance that he attached toit.

"I do not insist," he said; "it is a way like any other, but better.You do not wish it, and we will not talk of it."

But he yielded too quickly for her to hope that he renounced his project,and she remained under the influence of a stupefying terror. What wouldshe say if he made her talk? Everything, possibly. She did not evenknow what thoughts were hidden in the depths of her brain, and she knewabsolutely nothing of this forced somnambulism with which she wasthreatened.

At this time the works of the school of Nancy on sleep, hypnotism, andsuggestion, had not yet been published, or at least the book which servedas their starting-point was not known, and she knew nothing of processesthat were employed to provoke the hypnotic sleep. As soon as her husbandleft the house she looked for some book in the library that wouldenlighten her. But the dictionary that she found gave only obscure orconfused instructions in which she floundered. The only exact point thatstruck her was the method employed to produce sleep; to make the subjectlook at a brilliant object placed from fifteen to twenty centimetres infront of the eyes. If this were true she had no fear of ever being putto sleep.

However, she was not reassured; and when a few days later at a dinner shefound herself seated next to one of her husband's 'confreres', who sheknew interested himself in somnambulism, she had the courage to conquerher usual timidity concerning medicine, and questioned him.

"Are there not persons with certain diseases who can be put into a stateof somnambulism?"

"It was formerly believed by the public and by many physicians that onlypersons afflicted with hysteria and nervous troubles could be put tosleep in this way, but it was a mistake; artificial somnambulism may beproduced on many subjects who are perfectly healthy."

"Is the will preserved in sleep?"

"The subject only preserves the spontaneity and will that his hypnotizerleaves him, who at his pleasure makes him sad, gay, angry, or tender, andplays with his soul as with an instrument."

"But that is frightful."

"Curious, at least. It is certain that there is a local paralysis ofsuch or such a cell, the study of which is the starting-point of manyinteresting discoveries."

"When he wakes, does the subject remember what he has said?"

"There is a difference of opinion on this point. Some say yes, andothers no. As for me, I believe the memory depends upon the degree ofsleep: with a light sleep there is remembrance, but with a profound sleepthe subject does not remember what he has said or heard or done."

She would have liked to continue, and her companion, glad to talk of whatinterested him, would willingly have said more, but she saw her husbandat the other end of the table watching them by fits and starts, andfearing that he would suspect the subject of their conversation sheremained silent.

What she had just learned seemed to her frightful. But, at least, as shewould not let herself be hypnotized she had nothing to fear; andremembering what she had read, she promised herself that she would neverlet him place her in a position where he could put her to sleep. It wasduring the sleep that the will of the hypnotizer controlled that of thesubject, not before.

Resting on this belief, and also on his not having again spoken ofsending her to sleep, she was reassured. Was not this a sign that heaccepted her opposition and renounced his idea of provoked somnambulism?

But she deceived herself.

One night when she had gone to bed at her usual hour while he remained athis work, she awoke suddenly and saw him standing near her, looking ather with eyes whose fixed stare frightened her.

"What is the matter? What do you want?"

"Nothing, I want nothing; I am going to bed."

In spite of the strangeness of his glance she did not persist; questionswould have taught her nothing. And besides, now that he no longer wentto bed at the same time as she did, there was nothing extraordinary inhis attitude.

But a few days from that she woke again in the night with a feeling ofdistress, and saw him leaning over her as if he would envelop her in hisarms.

This time, frightened as she was, she had the strength to say nothing,but her anguish was the more intense. Did he then wish to hypnotize herwhile she slept? Was it possible? Then the dictionary had deceived her?

In truth it was while she slept that Saniel tried to transform hernatural into an artificial sleep. Would he succeed? He knew nothingabout it, for the experience was new. But he risked it.

The first time, instead of putting her into a state of somnambulism, heawoke her; the second, he succeeded no better; the third, when he sawthat after a certain time she did not open her eyes, he supposed that shewas asleep. To assure himself, he raised her arm, which remained in theair until he placed it on the bed. Then taking her two hands, he turnedthem backward, and withdrawing his own, the impulsion which he gavelasted until he checked it. Her face had an expression of calmness andtranquillity that it had not had for a long time; she was the prettyPhillis of other days, with the sprightly glance.

"To-morrow I will make you sleep at the same time," he said, "and youwill talk."

The next night he put her to sleep even more easily, but when hequestioned her she resisted.

"No," she said, "I will not speak; it is horrible. I will not, Icannot."

He insisted, but she would not.

"Very well, so be it," he said; "not to-day, to-morrow. But to-morrow Iwish you to speak, and you shall not resist me; I will it!"

If he did not insist it was not only because he knew that habit wasnecessary to make her submit to his will without being able to defendherself, but because he was ignorant whether, when she awoke, she had anymemory of what happened in her sleep, which was an important point.

The next night she was the same as she had been the previous evening, andnothing indicated that she was conscious of her provoked sleep, any morethan what she said in this sleep. He could then continue.

This time she went to sleep sooner and more easily than usual, and herface took the expression of tranquillity and repose he had seen the nightbefore. Would she answer? And if she consented, would she speaksincerely, without attempting to weaken or falsify the truth? Emotionmade his voice tremble when he put the first question; it was his life,his peace, the happiness of both which decided him.

"Where do you suffer?" he asked.

"I do not suffer."

"Yet you are agitated, often melancholy or uneasy; you do not sleep well.What troubles you?"

"I am afraid."

"Afraid of what? Of whom?"

"Of you!"

He trembled.

"Afraid of me! Do you think that I could hurt you?"

"No."

His tightened heart relaxed.

"Then why are you afraid?"

"Because there are things in you that frighten me."

"What things? Be exact."

"The change that has taken place in your temper, your character, and yourhabits."

"And how do these changes make you uneasy?"

"They indicate a serious situation."

"What situation?"

"I do not know; I have never stated exactly."

"Why not?"

"Because I was afraid; and I closed my eyes so that I might not see."

"See what?"

"The explanation of all that is mysterious in your life."

"When did you notice the mystery in my life?"

"At the time of Caffie's death; and before, when you told me that youcould kill him without any remorse."

"Do you know who killed Caffie?"

"No."

His relief was so great that for several moments he forgot to continuehis interrogations. Then he went on: "And after?"

"A little before Madame Dammauville's death, when you became irritableand furious without cause; when you told me to go because you did notwish to see Madame Dammauville; when, the night before her death, youwere so tender, and asked me not to judge you without recalling thathour."

"Yet you have judged me."

"Never. When worry urged me, my love checked me."

"What provoked this uneasiness outside of these facts?"

"Your manner of living since our marriage; your accesses of anger and oftenderness; your fear of being observed; your agitation at night; yourcomplaints--"

"The anger that you show, or the embarrassment, when the name of Caffieis pronounced, Madame Dammauville's, and Florentin's--"

"And you conclude that my anger on hearing these three names--"

"Nothing--I am afraid--"

CHAPTER XLIII

THE TERRIBLE REVELATION

This confession threw him into a state of confusion and agitation, for ifit did not go beyond what he feared, yet it revealed a terriblesituation.

Clearly, as in an open book, he read her; if she did not know all, shewas but one step from the truth, and if she had not taken this step, itwas because her love restrained her. If her love had been less strong,less powerful, she certainly would not have withstood the proofs thatpressed on her from all sides.

But because she had held back so long, he must not conclude that thestruggle would be continued in this way, and that a more violent blow,a stronger proof than the others, would not open her eyes in spite ofherself.

It only needed an imprudence, a carelessness on his part, and unluckilyhe could no longer be relied on.

From what he had just learned it would be easy to watch himself closely,and to avoid dangerous subjects, those that she described to him; but ifhe could guard his words and looks during the day, neither saying norletting anything appear that was an accusation, not confirming thesuspicions against which she struggled, he could not do it at night.

He had not talked, and when she answered negatively to his question, shelifted a terribly heavy weight from his heart. But he had groaned andmoaned, he had pronounced broken words without sense and unintelligible,and there was the danger.

What was necessary to make these sighs, these groans, these broken andunintelligible words become distinct and take a meaning? A nothing, anaccident, since his real cerebral tendency placed him up to a certainpoint in a somnambulistic state. Was this tendency congenital with himor acquired? He did not know. Before the agitated nights after MadameDammauville's death and Florentin's condemnation, the idea had neveroccurred to him that he might talk in his sleep. But now he had theproof that the vague fears which had tormented him on this subject wereonly too well founded; he had talked, and if the words that escaped werenot now comprehensible, they might become so.

Without having made a special study of sleep, natural or induced, he knewthat in the case of natural somnambulists a hypnotic sleep is easilyproduced, and that while holding a conversation with a subject who talksin his sleep one may readily hypnotize him. Without doubt he need notfear this from Phillis; but it was possible that some night whenincoherent words escaped him she would not be able to resist thetemptation to enter into a conversation with him, and to lead him toconfess what she wished to know--what the love that she felt for herbrother would drive her to wish to learn.

If this opportunity presented itself, would the love for her brother orfor her husband carry her away? If she questioned him, what would he notsay?

For the first time he asked himself if he had done right to marry, andif, on the contrary, he had not committed a mad imprudence in introducinga woman into a life so tormented as his. He had asked calmness from thiswoman, and now she brought him terror.

To tell the truth, she was dangerous only at night; and if he found a wayto occupy another room he would have nothing to fear from her during theday, on condition that he held himself rigorously on the defensive.Loving him as she did, she would resist the curiosity that drew her; ifuneasiness drove her, her love would restrain her, as she herself hadsaid; little by little this uneasiness and curiosity, being no longerexcited, would die out, and they would again enjoy the sweet days thatfollowed their marriage.

But in the present circumstances this way was difficult to find, for topropose another room to Phillis would be equal to telling her that he wasafraid of her, and consequently it would give her a new mystery to study.He reflected, and starting with the idea that the proposition of tworooms must come from Phillis, he arranged a plan which, it seemed to him,would accomplish what he wished.

Ignorant of the fact that she had been hypnotized, and not rememberingthat she had talked, without doubt Phillis still feared that he wouldhypnotize her; he would threaten it again, and surely she would find away to defend herself and escape from him.

This is what happened. The next day, when he told her decidedly that hewished to put her to sleep in order that he might learn what troubledher, she showed the same fright as on the first time.

"All that you have asked of me, everything that you have desired, I havewished as you and with you; but I will never consent to this."

"Your resistance is absurd; I will not yield to it."

"You shall not put me to sleep against my will."

"Easily."

"It is not possible."

Without replying, he took a book from the library, and turning over theleaves, he read: "Is it possible to make a sleeping person, withoutawaking him, pass from the natural to the hypnotic sleep? The thing ispossible, at least with certain subjects."

Then handing her the book:

"You see that to put you to sleep artificially I need only theopportunity of finding you sleeping naturally. It is very simple."

"That would be odious."

"Those are merely words."

He threw her into such a state of terror that she kept awake all night,and as he would not sleep for fear of talking, he felt that she exertedevery faculty to keep awake. But had he not gone too far? And by thisthreat would he not drive her to some desperate act? If she shouldescape, if she deserted him--what would become of him without her? Wasshe not his whole life? But he reassured himself by saying that sheloved him too much ever to consent to a separation. Without doubt, sheherself would come to think as he wished her to think.

And yet when he returned home in the evening she told him that her motherwas not well, and begged him to examine her. This examination provedthat Madame Cormier was in her usual health; but she complained that herbreath failed her--during the day she had feared syncope.

"If you are willing," Phillis said, "I will sleep near mamma. I amafraid of not hearing her at night, and she is suffering."

He began by refusing, then he consented to this arrangement; and to thankhim for it she stayed with him in his office, affectionate, full oftenderness and caresses, until he went to his room.

He was then free to sleep or not; whether he groaned or talked she couldnot hear him, since there was no communicating door between his room andthat of his mother-in-law; his voice certainly would not penetrate thepartition.

Who could have told him on the night that he decided to marry, that hewould come to such a pass--to be afraid, to hide himself from her whobrought him the calmness of sleep; and that by his fault, by a chain ofimprudences and stupidities, as if it were written that in everything hewould owe his sufferings to himself, and that if he ever succumbed to thewhirlwind that swept him along, it would be by his own deed, by his ownhand? At last he had assured the tranquillity of his nights, and as afurther precaution, although he did not fear that Phillis would enter hisroom while he slept, to surprise him--she who dared not look in the facewhat suspicion showed her--he locked his door. Naturally, Phillis couldnot always sleep with her mother; but he would find a way to suggestfrankly their sleeping apart, and surely he could find one in thestorehouse of medicine.

These cares and similar fears were not of a nature to dispose him tosleep, and besides for a long time he had suffered from an exasperatingnervous insomnia. As the night was warm he thought a little fresh airwould calm him, and he opened the window; if this freshness did not calmhim, at least it would make him sleep.

Obliged to improvise a bed in her mother's room, Phillis placed itagainst the partition that separated her from her husband, but withoutpreconcerted intention, simply by accident, because it was the only placewhere she could put the bed. A little after midnight an unusual noiseawoke her; she sat up to listen and to recover herself. It seemed as ifthis noise came from her husband's room. Alarmed, she placed her earagainst the partition. She was not deceived; they were stifled groans,moans that were repeated at short intervals.

Carefully yet quickly she left her bed, and as the dawn was alreadyshining in the windows, she was able to leave the room without making anynoise. Reaching the door of her husband's room she listened; she was notdeceived; they were indeed groans, but louder and sadder than those shehad so often heard during the night. She tried the door, but it wasevidently locked on the inside. What was the matter with him? She mustknow, must go to him, and give him relief. She thought of knocking, ofshaking the door; but as he did not reply when she tried to open it, itwas because he did not hear or did not wish to hear. Then she thought ofthe terrace; from there she could see what happened, and if it werenecessary she would break a pane to enter.

She found the window open and saw her husband on the bed, sleeping, hishead turned toward her; she stopped and asked herself if she should crossthe threshold and wake him.

At this moment, with closed lips, he pronounced several words moredistinctly than those that had so many times escaped him: "Phillis--forgive."

He dreamed of her. Poor, dear Victor! for what did he wish her topardon him? Doubtless for having threatened to hypnotize her:

Overcome by this proof of love she put her head through the opening ofthe window to give him a look before returning to her mother, but onseeing his face in the full white light of the morning, she wasfrightened; it expressed the most violent sorrow, the features convulsedwith anguish and horror at the same time. Surely he was ill. She mustwake him. just as she took a step toward him he began to speak: "Yourbrother--or me?"

She stopped as if thunderstruck, then instinctively she drew back andclung to the window in the vestibule to keep herself from falling,repeating those two words that she had just heard, not understanding, notwishing to understand.

Instead of returning to her mother, trembling and holding on to the wallshe entered the parlor and let herself fall into a chair, prostrated,crushed.

"Your brother--or me?"

This was, then, the truth, the frightful truth that she had never wishedto see.

She stayed there until the noises in the street warned her that it wasgetting late, and she might be surprised. Then she returned to hermother.

But at sight of her daughter's face she saw that something had happened."My God! What is the matter?" she asked, trembling.

"Something serious--very serious, but unfortunately it is irreparable.We must leave here, never to return."

"Your husband--"

"You must never speak to me of him. This the only thing I ask of you."

"Alas! I understand. It is what I foresaw, what I said would happen.You cannot bear the contempt that he shows us on account of yourbrother."

"We must hereafter be strangers to each other, and this is why we leavethis house."

"My God! At my age, to drag my bones--"

"I have engaged a lodging at the Ternes; a wagon will come to take thefurniture that belongs to us, what we brought here, only that. We willtell the concierge that we are going to the country. As for Josephine,you need not fear indiscreet questions, for I have given her a day off."

"But the money?"

"I have two hundred francs from the sale of my last picture; that isenough for the present. Before they are gone I shall have painted andsold another; do not worry, we shall have all we need."

All this was said in a hard but resolute tone.

A ring of the bell interrupted them. It was the express wagon.

"See that they do not take what does not belong to us," Phillis said."While they fill their wagon I will write in the parlor."

At the end of an hour the wagon was ready. Madame Cormier entered theparlor to tell her daughter.

"I have finished," Phillis said.

Having placed her letter in an envelope, she laid it in full view onSaniel's desk.

"Now let us go," she said.

And as her mother sighed, while walking with difficulty

"Lean on me, dear mamma, you know I am strong."

CHAPTER XLIV

AFTER LONG YEARS

Saniel did not return until quite late in the afternoon. When he openedthe door with his key he was surprised at not seeing his wife run to himand kiss him.

"She is painting," he said to himself, "she did not hear me."

He passed into the parlor, convinced that he would find her at her easel;but he did not see her, and the easel was not in its usual place, therenor anywhere else.

He knocked at the door of Madame Cormier's room; there was no reply; heknocked louder a second time, and after waiting a moment he entered. Theroom was empty; there was no bed, no furniture, no one.

Stupefied, he looked around him, then returning to the vestibule hecalled: "Phillis! Phillis!"

There was no reply. He ran to the kitchen, no one was there; he wentinto his office, no one there. But as he looked about him, he sawPhillis's letter on his desk, and his heart leaped; he grasped iteagerly, and opened it with a trembling hand. It was as follows:

"I have gone, never to return. My despair and disgust of life are such, that without my mother and the poor being who is so far away, I should kill myself; but in spite of the horror of my position I was obliged to reflect, and I do not wish to aggravate by folly the wickedness that is going on about me. My mother is no longer young; she is ill and has suffered cruelly. Not only do I owe it to her to brighten her old age by my presence, by the material and moral support that I can give her, but she must have faith that I am there to replace her, and to open my arms to her son, to my brother. The least that I can do for them is to wait courageously for him; and, however weary, terrible, or frightful my life may be hereafter, I shall bear it so that the unfortunate, the pariah, whom a pitiless fate has pursued, will find on his return a hearth, a home, a friend. This will be my only object, my reason for living; and in order to save myself from sluggishness and weariness, my thoughts will always be on the time when he will return, he whom I will call my child, and whom my love must save and cure. I know that long years separate me from that day, and that until it comes my broken heart will never have a moment of repose; but I shall employ this time in working for him, for the brother, for the child, for the cherished being who will come to me aged and desperate; and I wish that he may yet believe in something good, that he will not imagine everything in this world is unjust and infamous, for he will return to me weighed down by twenty years of shame, of degrading and undeserved shame. How will he bear these twenty years? What efforts must I not make to prove to him that he should not abandon himself to despair, and that life often offers the remedy, compassion to the most profound, to the most unjust human sorrows? How can I make him believe that? How lead his poor heart, closed to confidence, to feeling, to the tears that alone can relieve it? God who has so sorely tried me, without doubt will come to my aid, and will inspire me with words of consolation, will show me the path to follow, and give me the strength to persevere. Have I not already to thank Him for being alone in the world, outside of a mother and brother who will not betray me? I have no children, and I am spared the terror of seeing a soul growing in evil, an intelligence escaping from me to follow the path of infamy or dishonor. I leave, then, as I came. I was a poor girl, I go away a poor woman. I have taken the clothing and personal effects that I brought into our common home, nothing that was bought with your money; and I forbid you to interfere with my wish in this question of material things, as well as in my resolution to fly from you. Nothing can ever reunite us; nothing shall reunite us, no consideration, no necessity. I reject the past, this guilty past, the responsibility of which weighs so heavily on my conscience, and I should like to lose the memory of the detested time. It would be impossible for me to accept the struggle, or supplications, if you think it expedient to make any. I have cut our bonds, and hereafter we shall be as far apart as if one of us were dead, or even farther. Have no scruples, then, in leaving me alone to face a new life, a beginning that may appear difficult to one not situated as I am. The trials of former times were good for me, since they accustomed me to the difficulties of work. The desolation of to-day will sustain me, in the sense that having suffered all I can suffer, I no longer fear some discouraging catastrophe that will check me in my resolutions. In order not to compromise you, and more fully to become myself again, I shall take my family name--a dishonored name--but I shall bear it without shame. I shall live obscurely, absorbed in work and in trying to forget your existence; do the same yourself. If you think of the past, you will find, perhaps, that I am hard; yet this departure is not an egotistic desertion. I am no good to you, and the repose that you want would shun you hereafter in my presence. On the contrary, strive for forgetfulness, as I shall. If you contrive to wipe out of your life the part that is associated with me, perhaps you will be able to banish the remainder, and to recover some of the calm of other days. I can no longer remember that I have loved you, for my position is such that I have not the refuge of memory; at my age I must remain without a past as without a future; the consolation of the unfortunate is lost to me with everything else. I cannot rise out of my sorrow to try to find one hour when life was sweet to me; those hours, on the contrary, make me tremble, and I reproach myself for them as if they were a crime. Thus, whichever way I turn, I find only sadness and sharp regrets; everything is blighted, dishonored for me."

Standing in the middle of his office he read this hastily written letterbreathlessly. Arrived at the end he looked about him vaguely. His chairwas near his desk; he let himself fall into it and remained thereprostrated, holding the letter in his shaking hand.

"Alone!"

It was an October afternoon, dark and muddy; in the Rue des Saints-Peres,in front of the houses that hide the Charity Hospital, coupes werestanding, and their long line extended to the Boulevard Saint-Germain,where the coachmen, having left their seats, talked together like personswho were accustomed to meet each other. At half-past four o'clock, inthe deepening twilight, men with grave looks and dark clothes--members ofthe Academy of Medicine--the Tuesday sitting over, issued from the porch,and entered their carriages. Some of them walked alone, briskly, in agreat hurry; others demonstrated a skilful tardiness, stopping to talkpolitely to a journalist, and to give him notes of the day's meeting,or continuing, with a 'confrere' who was not an Academician, theconversation begun in the room of the 'pas-perdus'; it was the Bourse ofconsultations that was just closed. Not all the members of the Academyhave, in truth, a long list of patients to visit; but each one has a voteto give, and they are those whom the candidates surround, trying to winthem.

One of the Academicians who appeared the last at the top of the steps wasa man of great height but bent figure, with hollow cheeks and pale facelighted by pale blue eyes with a strange expression, both hard anddesolate at the same time. He advanced alone, and his heavy gait anddragging step gave him the appearance of a man sixty years of age, whilein other ways he retained a certain youthfulness. It was Saniel, twentyyears older.

Without exchanging a bow or a hand-shake with any one, he descended tothe pavement and walked to the boulevard, where he opened the door of acoups whose interior showed a complete ambulant library--a writing tablewith paper, ink, and lamp, pockets full of books and pamphlets.

Just as he was about to enter, a voice stopped him.

He turned; it was one of his old pupils, who had recently become aphysician in the suburb of Gentilly.

"What is it?" asked Saniel.

"I want to ask you to come and assist me in a curious case of spasms,where your intervention may be decisive."

"Where?"

"At the Maison-Blanche, a poor woman. What day could you give me?"

"Is it urgent?"

"Yes."

"In that case I will go at once. Give the address to my coachman, andget in with me."

But at this moment a white-haired man dressed in chestnut velvet, wearinga felt hat and sabots, came toward them, accompanied by two young menwith whom he discoursed in a loud tone while gesticulating. Peopleturned to look at them, so original was the appearance of old Brigard,the same man from head to foot that he had always been.

He came to Saniel with outstretched hands, and Saniel, taking off hishat, received him with marked respect.

"Enchanted to meet you," Brigard said, "for I went to your officeyesterday and did not find you."

"Why did you not send me word beforehand? If you need me I am at yourdisposal."

"Thanks, but happily I do not need your advice, neither for myself nor myfamily; it was simply that I wished to see you. Arriving at your housebefore your office hours, I waited in your reception-room and severalpatients came after me--a young woman who appeared to suffer cruelly, anold lady who was extremely anxious, and lastly a man who had some nervousdisease that would not permit him to sit still. And, looking at them, Isaid to myself that as I was only making a friendly visit I would notremain and prolong the waiting of these unfortunates who counted theminutes, so I came away."

"May I ask to what do I owe the honor of this visit?"

The two young men who accompanied Brigard, and Saniel's old pupildiscreetly withdrew.

"The desire to present you my congratulations. When I learned of yourcandidature to the Academy of Medicine I said to myself: Here is one whohas no chance; friend Saniel has originality and force; he has succeededbrilliantly; but these qualities are not exactly academic. I wasdeceived. You have broken open the doors, which is the only way that Iunderstand of entering these places. That is why I congratulate you.And, besides, I did you wrong formerly--"

After warmly pressing Saniel's hands, he went on his way with his twodisciples, preaching to them.

The young doctor approached Saniel.

"He is an original," he said.

"A happy man!" was the only reply.

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

He did not sleep, so much the better! He would work moreOne does not judge those whom one lovesShe could not bear contemptThe strong walk alone because they need no oneWe are so unhappy that our souls are weak against joyWe weep, we do not complain